They’re like little red bombs
by Misunderstood Beauty
Summary: They’re like little red bombs, and there’s only a few seconds left on the timer. M, N and O. RuthHarry


Disclaimer: Don't sue me, Harry, Juliet and Ruth aren't mine. Though Christmas is only counts 44 days away.

-

_I find the map and draw a straight line  
Over rivers, farms, and state lines  
The distance from here to where you'd be  
It's only finger-lengths that I see  
I touch the place where I'd find your face  
My finger in creases of distant dark places_

Snow Patrol – Set the fire to the third bar

-

M is for meeting.

-

He wonders what on earth he's doing. Standing here halfway across Waterloo Bridge on the 19th November. He wonders whether she'll come. He wonders if she even got the letter. Knowing his luck the moomins at Royal Mail will have lost it and she'll receive it tomorrow. Next week. Possibly even next year. He's screwed.

It's nothing; he's learned to tell himself. It's nothing. It's nothing. It's nothing. It worked out that way the first time.

He knows that she'll be here. Somehow if he convinces himself of that he'll be alright. Somehow. Someway. Sometime.

_He's 16. He's jumping on his bed playing an air guitar with Billy. He's playing loud music. His mum's shouting at him to turn the bloody thing down. His dad's down the pub. Ben is standing outside the door wanting to join in._ He wishes.

"Harry?" A soft voice appears behind him. He whips around, "I got your note." The angel whispers.

"My god, Ruth!" He engulfs her in a bear hug before pressing a large and overly wet kiss to her forehead.

"Anyone would have thought you weren't pleased to see me." She smiles, showing that she's joking.

"You're becoming more like Tess than Ruth." He flicks her nose with his index finger.

"I may have to take that as a compliment."

"Oh Ruth, you've changed."

"You mean I'm not naïve anymore." She smiles, her grey eyes flashing with joy.

He leans towards her throat, "Bang bang." He whispers, because it's kind of funny how it's come to this. He feels a laugh well up in her vocal chords.

"That was a slight conversation hop." She remarks as he resurfaces. He can feel her stare burning into his skin.

He used to think it was like building sandcastles. Struggling to find his place and praying that it won't crumble. He now can see his place on her. "You make it complicated." He comments, more to himself than to her.

"You'd like to think I make it complicated, because then there would be an answer. But there's not, and there never will be." Life's hardened her. He thinks he likes this newfound confidence and openness. But he's not sure. Not anymore.

-

N is for notions.

-

They say nothing to each other. It was always going to happen. Someone was going to get hurt. She hadn't deserved it though. She has such soul, such fire.

Their fingers have entwined. He thinks it was him that had taken hold of her hand. He doesn't know anymore. Life's left him behind. He's alone now that she's not working with him.

"Harry? Are you OK?" She snaps, he can tell she's still just a little bit pissed off.

"Yes, I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"You."

"Care to elaborate?"

"What's up with you today, you seem so on edge?"

Her voice rises to a shrill screech, "Maybe I am Harry, because, in case you haven't noticed, I'm supposed to be dead!"

"And when you're dead you're not supposed to have PMS, right?" He chuckles and dodges a badly-timed whack.

"I could hit you so hard right now Harry Pearce!" There's a smile in her voice though, he's managed to make her bad mood evaporate.

"I'd rather you kissed me but go on then." He teases; he thinks its fun to wind her up like this.

They've barely even made it to the car before she's backed up against it, his tongue gaining possession of her mouth in an instant. Her hands curl into the lapels of his coat. Things begin to spin, faster and faster, round and round.

They're beginning to get dizzy. But he doesn't want to stop, and he's pretty damn certain that she doesn't want to either.

It's nothing more than a notion. An idea.

-

O is for opposites.

-

It's curious, though, how it's become a series of confrontations between the two of them. There's no control, but it's not the objective of it all.

He thinks it's pretty damn funny it's come to this. They've become like an old married couple.

It's hardly romantic, but this is consuming him in his desperate need to have more, to be more. He's falling down avenues he didn't even know existed. She's tearing him apart.

They've become contradictions. Shadows of their former selves. She has a different name and a different life. His isn't _different_, it's changed infinitely. For the worse.

Life without her is like a hole. A gaping crack in the very purpose of being. He wonders what kept him going. It hits him; he was waiting for this moment, just her and him. Alone.

There's an answer to all this. Somewhere.

He doesn't mean to laugh. He doesn't mean to smile. He just does. That's the beauty, things just happen.

He's always hated cars, and long journeys. The drive back to his house seems to take forever. She doesn't talk; she just sits and stars out of the windscreen, unblinking. It reminds him of Juliet, and the way she sat the first time he took her home.

Her hands are clasped between her knees and she's rocking ever so slightly forwards and backwards. He can see a clenched muscle in her jaw; he's not entirely sure whether it's annoyance or nervousness. He hopes it's the latter.

He's not quite sure if he's feeling anything. Everything inside him just seems a mess of frayed nerves. A jumble of untranslatable emotions. A muddle of unconfessed passions.

They're like little red bombs, and there's only a few seconds left on the timer.

They say nothing to each other. It's going to happen anyway.


End file.
